


your scars spell: I was here

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s03e14 More Bad Than Good, F/M, Knifeplay, Power Play, Rough Sex, Scars, Uneasy Allies, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deucalion makes Braeden an offer she can't refuse, but you don't run with wolves for as long as she has without having a few tricks up your sleeve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your scars spell: I was here

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely glitterburn for the beta!

He tracks Braeden down in a dingy motel along State Route 99. 

The girl is cautious, smart. A barrier of mountain ash blocking his entrance to the door, a second one inside the window, barring any werewolf from breaking and entering. Smart, but not smart enough. The ash does nothing to stop the janitor, a grumpy, middle-aged guy with greasy hair who Deucalion asks to kindly check the plumbing. The man's heavy, scuffling steps smudge the line of ash as he crosses it.

When she returns, it doesn't take Braeden ten seconds to realize she isn't alone. It's impressive, to watch someone without any superhuman instincts detect an intruder in a pitch black room within a couple of heartbeats, a skill that makes Deucalion confident that he's not wrong in choosing her for the job at hand.

Her breathing becomes shallow, measured, as she produces a knife from her sleeve and closes her fingers around the cool steel, ready to strike before she's attacked.

He chooses that moment to switch on the light, the sudden brightness temporarily blinding her. "Now, there's no need for that. Why don't you put that knife down before someone gets hurt?"

"Deucalion." Resignation mingles with disapproval in her tone. She doesn't seem particularly surprised to see him, nor – understandable, perhaps, given the outcome of their past scrap – particularly happy. Still, her stance eases a little, that tightly coiled tension that promised an imminent attack relaxing, even though she doesn't heed his friendly suggestion to put the knife away. "What do you want? I take it you're not here to finish what you started, or I'd already be dead."

He raises an eyebrow, as if questioning her astonishingly astute assessment of her situation and the lack of a threat she assumes him to be, but she remains unruffled. He likes that about her. 

"A bold assumption, but true nonetheless," he admits. "My apologies for disrupting the sanctity of your... home. I heard you're looking for a job."

That, at last, seems to throw her. " _You_ want to hire me?"

The outrage in her voice makes him smile. "Why not? I understand you're a mercenary, so it's all business for you, and I do appreciate the fact that you're not on anyone's side. I assure you, I bear no ill will towards you, regardless of the regretful circumstances of our last encounter." His gracious act of offering to let bygones be bygones is mostly for show. He's well aware that she's the one with a right to hold grudges, born from the lines that mar her face and her throat, but he also knows that she can't afford to be picky in her choice of employer.

Her jaw sets in a hard, angry line, and the way her restless fingers twitch towards the gun in the back of her waistband makes it obvious how little she wants to work for him. She doesn't reach for the weapon, though, grabbing a chair instead and straddling it backwards, her arms crossed defensively on top of the backrest. 

"I'm listening," she says, and he knows that he has her. 

"Derek Hale. I need you to find him for me. Rumor is, he and his insufferable uncle have encountered a spot of... trouble down South, while they were chasing after some family heirloom. I'd like for you to help them clean up the mess they're in."

"And get the mysterious heirloom for you?"

He smiles faintly. She's clever, no denying, but he's already five steps ahead. "I don't particularly care about that. Just get Derek out, make sure he's safe. I'll handle the rest."

She shrugs. "Sounds like a peach. Sure you can afford me?" She doesn't bother asking about his motives for wanting Derek safe. That, too, is something he likes about her. 

"I'm certain. How about I pay you twice your usual rate? In fact, as a sign of my goodwill, you'll find that I've already routed an advance to your account."

"I haven't said yes yet." It's hard to tell whether she's amused or annoyed by his presumptuousness. A little of both, in all likelihood.

He waves it off. "You're not going to say no."

"Just for that, I ought to."

"But you won't, so let's not waste time quibbling. I want you to leave for Mexico tomorrow morning."

"Fine," she snaps, standing up so abruptly that the chair wobbles and falls, clattering as it crashes onto the floor. "It's not like I have anything better to do, and it beats sitting on my ass counting dustballs here."

"That's the spirit. As Marin told me, it's a pleasure doing business with you." Stepping closer, he reaches out and traces the claw-marks on her neck with blunt, human fingers. She doesn't as much as flinch, bearing his touch without any reaction at all. 

"Do they still hurt?" It's curiosity, not pity that makes him ask. 

He doesn't regret his past actions, not truly. At that time, it was necessary – and anyway, what's done is done. 

Braeden shrugs, as if it doesn't matter, as if she barely remembers the scars at all. With anyone else, he'd be inclined to believe that it's a front she's putting up to protect herself, but her heartbeat is even and steady, no hint of a lie hiding behind the front of nonchalance. "They itch, sometimes. Used to bug the hell out of me, at first, but I got used to it."

His fingers still against her skin, and he slides his hand up to cup her cheek, the harsh scar tissue rough against his palm, so different to the soft, smooth skin around it. 

"I like them," he says. 

He expects her to misunderstand, to twist away and call him a sadist and a possessive asshole, and perhaps that's part of it: the fact that they're _his_ scars, that he was the one to put them there and forever mark her. But it's a very small part. What he means to say is: the scars suit her. He remembers tracing her face with his fingers and commenting on her beauty, that day at the school. The scars haven't destroyed that. If anything, she's more beautiful now, not less, the lines on her skin telling of strength and endurance and marking her as a survivor. 

She can't possibly gather all that from his words, but even if she fails to understand the scope of his meaning, she doesn't take offense. Her grin is quick and bright, blinding. "So do I." 

There's nothing self-conscious in the way she leans into his touch, rubbing her ruined skin into the cup of his hand. 

He inhales sharply. The room smells like stale air and wolfsbane and gunpowder and arousal – both his own and hers, and the way the scents mingle sends his senses into overdrive, making the wolf inside him howl, the telltale burn behind his eyes and the prickling sensations of claws breaking free.

"Down, boy," she admonishes. Her mouth twitches, betraying her amusement, and the fact that his loss of control over his human features clearly does nothing to scare her. Such effortless confidence and defiance – not entirely smart, perhaps, but certainly attractive.

His smile has fangs. "Careful. I'm not a tame dog who will listen to commands."

"We'll see about that." 

She pushes him until the backs of his knees hit the couch. He goes down willingly, chuckling softly. It's easy to let someone have the upper hand when he knows he could rip them apart without breaking into a sweat if he wanted to. Her show of dominance doesn't cost him anything and gives her pleasure, so why not let her get away with it? They both know that's all it is: a show.

Leaning back and relaxing against the worn cushions, he watches her shimmy out of her pants, her hips wriggling as she pushes the tight denim down, revealing silky, unmarred skin. His fingers are itching to reach for her, but instead he chooses to content himself with observing her undress on her own, letting his eyes take their fill. It's been too long since he's had a chance to watch a woman strip, to see her peel off layer by layer rather than have to rely on touch alone. He'd forgotten what that feels like, the sweet thrill of anticipation.

She has all the grace of a predator as she climbs onto the couch and straddles his legs, and not for the first time he thinks that she'd make a great wolf. It takes some impulse control not to put it to the test just _how_ great, with her exposed shoulder within easy reach of his teeth. He reminds himself that it wouldn't suit him well to turn her now. She's of more use to him as a human.

Instead, he lets his fangs retract as he presses his mouth to the juncture between her neck and her chin, tracing her scars with his lips and his tongue. She jerks – not away but towards him, grinding down against his crotch, and the tortured little sound that escapes her lips is delightfully needy and uninhibited.

"Admiring your handiwork," she teases when her voice is almost steady again.

He laughs softly. With one hand twisted into her hair to hold her in place, he kisses her, greedy and wet, taking no prisoners. "Can you blame me?"

He draws sharp nails down her side, making her shiver, goosebumps rising on the arms she's wound loosely around his neck for balance. A trace of red coats her mouth from where her teeth have worried her lips until the skin has broken.

In a sinuous movement, she rocks against him. "I need you inside of me. Now." 

Something about her pushiness makes him want to sink his claws into her flesh, and he isn't entirely sure if what makes him see red is desire or irritation. "Do you? And why would I care about what you need?" A raised eyebrow accompanies the taunt. He has every intention of giving her what she wants, but he needs her to acknowledge that it's going to be on his terms, not hers. 

The plan unexpectedly backfires.

"Let's say my satisfaction is in your best interest." He isn't sure where she produces the knife from, but his attention hasn't been as sharply focused as it should have been, and suddenly the blade is at his neck, pressing a little too close for comfort. Braeden smiles, and there's something a little wolfish about it. 

She leans in close, her breath ghosting against his face when she speaks. "Do you smell the wolfsbane? It wouldn't kill you, probably, but I'd say it would leave us with some nice matching scars. Since you admire mine so much, and all that."

He hisses when she nicks his skin and the wolfsbane burns sharply into his bloodstream, making him draw back his lips and bare his teeth to her.

Her laughter is warm, like fresh blood. The blade eases away a little, just enough to give him room to move. He slaps the knife out of her hand easily, and the way she barely reacts at all, not even bothering to look at where her weapon has landed on the other end of the couch, lets him know that she saw it coming – has, he assumes, expected his move.

It makes him wonder if she expects retaliation, the painful slash of claws into her skin, if she's perhaps looking for an excuse to cut their alliance short, or if she's merely riding high on adrenaline and danger. Either way, he hates to be predictable.

He lifts her up just enough that he can undo his pants and free his cock, making quick work of her soaked panties with a sharp flick of his thumb, the claw slicing effortlessly through the silky fabric. For a moment, he lets the pointed tip of his nail rest against her clit, pressing in – not enough to draw blood, just enough that it's dancing between pleasure and pain, half-threat, half-promise. 

"I don't appreciate being threatened," he warns her evenly.

She laughs a little shakily, but the way her fluids are coating his fingers tells him it's not fear that ruffles her composure. "Liar. Everyone always cowers from the demon wolf, and it bores you. You like it when I'm defiant. If you didn't, you'd have killed me rather than just leave me with some souvenirs on my skin."

He hums softly under his breath. "So presumptuous. I'd be careful, if I were you. There's a fine line between defiance and foolishness."

Without waiting for a reply, he pushes into her. One single harsh, relentless thrust until he's buried to the hilt inside of her, drawing a soft, surprised yell from her pretty little throat.

He doesn't give her time to recover, snapping his hips up and down fast, setting a brutal rhythm that drives the breath from her body. It takes her a minute or two until she gets used to it, until she doesn't just hold on and take it but starts returning his ferocity with equal measure, meeting each of his thrusts with her own. 

She's fiercely beautiful like this. Her head is craned backwards, exposing her neck to him, and he once more feels the desire to rip into her with his fangs, right where his claw-marks stand out in long, uneven lines. 

When her thrusts start to slow down and he feels the muscles in her thighs begin to quiver with exhaustion, he reaches between their bodies, letting his claws dance over her slick, swollen clit again and again until she comes with a silent scream, arching her back in a way that brings her scars even better into view. It's that sight as much as the way she's clenching around him that sends him over the edge.

She collapses in a heap on top of him, her skin slick with sweat and beautifully flushed, hair plastered against her back and her neck, enveloping the scars like a scarf.

He allows her to catch her breath for a few moments, until she rolls off him and stands. Her clothes lie in a neat heap on the floor. She reaches for them, unselfconsciously dressing herself while he does up his pants. He winces a little when the harsh material rubs against his over-sensitized skin.

Perhaps it's his discomfort that makes her smirk, or perhaps she simply believes that she's bested him in that little battle of wits before. He doesn't disabuse her of the notion. She was right about one thing – her satisfaction is indeed in his best interest, if he wants her to do the job he hired her to do and deliver Derek to him. Strictly speaking, he doesn't need her help; he could do it himself, but his attention is currently focused elsewhere and working with her has some undeniable perks.

"What do you want me to do after I find Derek?" she asks, fully dressed and all business again.

"Nothing. I'm sure he'll come running back to Beacon Hills all on his own." Deucalion casually picks up the abandoned knife from the cushions. He hands it to her, blade first – it might be bad form not to offer the handle, but with the steel drenched in wolfsbane, she can hardly blame him. It cuts her when she takes it, as he knew it would, but if it weren't for the sudden tang of blood in the air, her reaction alone wouldn't have given it away. 

He smiles. "Find me again afterwards. I don't believe we're quite done yet, do you?"

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very much appreciated! ♥


End file.
